


Epiphany

by texaspeach



Series: MIrrormere [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-23 09:53:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23009635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/texaspeach/pseuds/texaspeach
Summary: Frerin had always believed battle was glorious.
Series: MIrrormere [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1653643
Kudos: 1





	Epiphany

**Author's Note:**

> This is a snippet from my NaNoWriMo project from... 2017? Maybe 2018? Heck if I remember. Anyway, the whole idea was based on Frerin surviving the battle of Azanulbizar. Add in various tropes, including fem!Bilbo, and you have about 50k words of a story that could be pretty dang good if I ever got around to finishing it. Alas, I have no interest in writing for The Hobbit fandom at the present time. Still, I figured I would share what I did have so it didn't languish in my Google Drive for the rest of time. XD

Frerin had always believed battle was glorious. The heroes would come arrayed in their shining golden mail, standing unflinching before the howling, slavering masses of their enemies. The villains - usually orcs - outnumbered the dwarven army five to one, but they were so stupid and slow that it would take ten of them to overcome one dwarfling just starting their weapons training. Few dwarrow died, and those who did die did so peacefully, happy in the knowledge that their sacrifice would be remembered to the end of the ages.

Then Smaug came.

Smaug, the fire-breather, who killed hundreds, perhaps even thousands of the dwarrow of Erebor.

Smaug, who drove the dwarrow out of the home they had lived in since Durin III had found the mountain.

Smaug, who even now sleeps in the depths of the treasury, unmolested by any enemy while those whose home he had stolen are forced to wander Arda, attempting to find a place they can call home.

Frerin doesn’t remember much of Erebor, it’s true. He barely remembers the feeling of a full belly, or of heated comfort through the entire winter. Even so, Ered Luin could certainly be worse. The mining isn’t as good as Erebor’s (how could it be? The mines of Erebor were the stuff of legend.), but it produces enough for his father and Thorin to get enough food to keep their people from starving to death. It only really gets cold in the depths of winter, thanks to the settlement being so close to the coast. And true, the westernmost part of the mountain is crumbling into the sea, but a little less than half of the dwarrow who escaped the dragon migrated to other dwarven settlements, like the Iron Hills, so there’s room enough on the eastern slopes for those who chose to stay with Thror.

But it isn’t enough for Grandfather, however, which is why Frerin is now close to the gates to Khazad-dûm, fighting orcs. Though his primary weapon is the bow, Grandfather had ordered him to leave it behind, snarling that no kin of his would fight like a cowardly elf. He’s put right on the front lines, between Dwalin and Thorin, who exchange terrified looks over his head. “Stay close to me, _nadad_ ,” Thorin orders quietly. “Don’t let me out of your sight, all right?”

Frerin quickly finds that’s much easier said than done. The stories he’d heard about battle all failed to mention the sheer chaos. The clang of sword on shield or armor, the screams of pain, the smell of blood, they all converge on his senses and nearly overwhelm him. It’s pure luck that he raises his shield to block the incoming swing of a nasty-looking orc blade. By the time he pulls his sword out of the cooling corpse, Thorin and Dwalin both are gone from sight. He recognizes a few of the dwarrow around him - there’s Dwalin’s father, Lord Fundin, fighting a huge monster of an orc - but those of his immediate family are nowhere to be seen.

In his moment of distraction, he doesn’t notice the orc behind him. He hefts his sword, but before he can take more than a step, blinding pain radiates out from his chest. He looks down and sees the tip of a blade withdrawing. He chokes, blood bubbling to his lips, and falls to his knees. A booted foot kicks him the rest of the way down. Groaning in agony, Frerin rolls to his side, clutching his chest and trying to stem the flow of blood. The large white orc lets out a rusty laugh and steps on his prone body in order to wade back into the fight, making sure to kick him again as a parting gift. As blackness rushes up to greet him, his last thought was about how the stories made dying on the battlefield much more glorious than it really was.


End file.
